


Mirror Image

by altmodes



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Clone Sex, Clones, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Fingering, Gemini Antics, Hand Jobs, Other, Playful Sex, Quantum Doubles, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altmodes/pseuds/altmodes
Summary: “What are you thinking about,” they murmur, sliding their faceplate from his thigh to the crease of his hip.
“How good I look,” Rewind shoots back, instantly, but some of his bite’s been stolen by the fraying at the edge of his voice, the way his syllables drawl on the ends. “How good you look. I’ll bet you’re-- oh-- ohh--"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rewind 1 is referred to with they/them and Rewind 2 with he/him for clarity. This is strictly from Rewind 2's POV.
> 
> Some alternate xeno headcanons here, also.
> 
> Anyway, happy Rewind Day for the Lost Light Fest.

“He’s not back yet.” Rewind looks up at the sound of his quantum double’s voice-- his own voice, really; they’re listlessly spinning the wheel on some toy, one of the things he remembers from the box of their things Chromedome tried to give him. It chirps happily, a contrast to their flat tone. “Is he still with Brainstorm?”

Rewind shrugs. “Nightbeat, he said, although Brainstorm might’ve blown them both up.”

The wheel shrieks when it ramps up for another spin. Rewind flops down on the bed beside where they’re stretched out on their back, and delicately props his cheek up to look down at them. Even after a few months, there are still moments when Rewind is caught aback by his quantum duplicate: watching someone so physically identical outside of a mirror, moving of their own accord, playing up the moody theatrics and glancing up at him to gauge his reaction. Those surreal, dreamlike moments aren’t now, though. Right now, he just feels… comfortable. Close.

“I promise,” he says, sweetly, resting a hand on their chest panel, “it’s gonna be okay.”

“Oh, shut up--” They swat at his hand and Rewind snatches it away with a snicker, but the sound rises into a shriek of laughter when they twist over and pin him onto his back. He’s surprised enough to thump back onto the bed like a heavy pillow. Easy prey.

“Hey!”

“ _It’s gonna be okay_ ,” they repeat, sing-song. One of their thumbs rubs over the inside of Rewind’s wrist. “I meant I’m _bored_.”

“Well,” Rewind says, drawing out the pause dramatically, getting his intonation just-so, “ _we’re_ here.”

“Hmm. True.” They slide a knee between his thighs, all the way up to his interface panel, and just-- lean in. He thinks his vocalizer might have offlined for a second. They let their weight settle across his chest, close enough that he can see his own mirror-image reflection in their visor-- it sends a thrill through his struts. Energon flushes through the pit of his stomach; he can feel the heat pressing down through the other Rewind’s chest, too. They tilt their head as they ask, “Any ideas?”

Rewind traces his fingers over the facemask just in front of him, listening to the thin, fine scrape. It’s not hard to imagine the tingling that must run down their spine, seeing them stiffen for just a beat, but it is satisfying. He eases his thighs wider and pushes his hips down slowly over their knee: the thrill of metal on metal, even without opening his panel, sends another shock of anticipation through him. He’s loose, stretched out underneath his double, and he hears a hum of pleasure he recognizes as would-be-his-own when he arches up against them.

“I dunno,” he says, innocently. Their knee rubs into him again, and his voice skips. The blue of their visor fills up his vision this close, although not as huge as Chromedome’s would be; he can see his headcam twinkling in the reflection. Rewind drops his voice to a stage whisper. “I sort of thought we were going to fuck.”

“Yeah?” They seem thoughtful as they pull back suddenly, but Rewind knows it’s calculated, and he knows it’s oh-so-conscious how they’re rubbing their leg all over his thighs. He feels _alone_ suddenly, three whole feet away from them or whatever it is. He feels petulant. They pull away entirely and Rewind’s about to scream before they drop down onto an elbow by his hips, with a palm sliding over the joint at his thigh, prying into the clusters of wires tucked between the seams. Rewind doesn’t try to quiet his whimper at the way they drag their thumb against the grain of one of the thicker cords, watching for his reaction. They hum contentedly. Sweetly. “If you want.”

Rewind clicks his panel open underneath their hand; he can feel the metal of their cooler palm begin to warm immediately at the temperature differential, but he loses track of that thought with the way their fingers curl inside his open valve. It’s just two but it’s daring, another up on the ante like they’re both gambling with an open bar, giddy and enthusiastic in their bets. Rewind hisses static at the feeling of fullness, but he rolls his hips into the feeling.

“You alright?” they ask, hesitating.

He nods, and bucks his hips against the hand filling his valve again. The look he gets is one for the books. “C’mon,” Rewind tilts his head, coy, and lets out a calculated sigh, “Don’t keep me waiting here.”

“Aw, you’ll be alright,” they purr, _oh shut up_ , but they spread their fingers inside him all the same, curl them up against lining so he sheds lubricant onto their hand. Rewind is arching again and lazing back down onto their hand already by the time they’ve worked their attention onto his exterior nodes; Rewind really doesn’t need to try to put on a good show when they know how to touch him like _that_. His spike pressurizes right against their hands, with a whisper of pneumatic noise and a snicker from their vocalizer, so close to his hips. And fuck Primus, the two of them have quick fingers-- they’re working their fingertips in circles around the network of nerves around his panel, ghost-light first and then pressing, incisive, dominating his attention. Rewind can’t tell if it’s just him humming, or if he feels the same satisfied frequency vibrate through _their_ chest, pressed against one of his legs.

Their visor scans over him-- Rewind can see the optical wiring recalibrating behind the glass-- and he can imagine how open both his valve and his face must look, spread out like this in front of them: he’s seen them like this, after all, and he knows the thrill that runs through him at the sight. His chest feels tight. Rewind squeezes his thighs, the calipers of his valve, down around the hand just like his inside of him, and catches their cheek with his palm and an affectionate visor flash.

Rewind runs his fingers down their throat as a trill echoes through it, his fingertips catching on the flexible joints ribbing their neck in the places it’s worn on both of them ( _a different pattern, he thinks; this looks more polished, less scuffed with damage too deep to buff out_ ). Somewhere else, somewhere he can’t see, their fingers are pushing further and harder into him, pulling little noises out of him by the handful, but Rewind can watch his own fingers stroking their throat and imagine.

“What are you thinking about,” they murmur, sliding their faceplate from his thigh to the crease of his hip.

“How good I look,” Rewind shoots back, instantly, but some of his bite’s been stolen by the fraying at the edge of his voice, the way his syllables drawl on the ends. “How good you look. I’ll bet you’re-- oh-- _ohh--_ ” Primus, fuck them, _fuck me_ , Rewind thinks, as the hand suddenly wrapped around his spike twists heaving shudders out of his struts and pistons. He feels graphite smearing powdery between their hand and his thighs, his spike, soft and slippery. Rewind feels like he could turn both their hands black, and the thought of his double covered in it, smeared with _him_ , grinds his hips down against their hands and trails static out of his vocalizer alongside his low whine.

“You do look good,” they whisper back, pressed into an edge of his hip panel with a smear of gray dust. “Getting fucked.”

“Bet I’ll look even better,” Rewind doesn’t bother to check a moan, reaching down to wrap his hand around theirs on his spike, “when you make me overload, huh.”

They laugh, but it’s chaotic, full of digital noise and implications. Everything’s fast, suddenly, in a way maybe he wasn’t ready for after all-- quick fingers inside of him and out, fucking him hard and rhythmic, and insistent fingers on his spike. Rewind twists under their body, into them, a bridge caught in some storm, and he shrieks like bending metal in dissatisfaction when they slow suddenly _just_ when--

“My face,” they say, and Rewind spits some kind of staticky noise of incomprehension at them. They stroke the cords of his spike again, as they sprawl across the leg of his they’ve already claimed, over and onto his lap. “Overload on my face.”

Rewind is on the brink already, brimming with the hot full feeling of their hand in his valve and electricity crackling up from his thighs into his chest, and the sight of them there-- wanting, hopeful, _identical_ \-- makes it almost instantaneous. His back strains up from the bunk with the energy surging through his hips, framed by the other Rewind’s body pinning him down, restrained by their weight. Rewind forces his vision online as he overloads to see the eager tilt of their head, the spray of his transfluid across their visor, the way it drips down through the smudges of graphite-- by the _Matrix_ , that’s hot. Double asterisk _that_ for later, Rewind thinks, half-coherently. He thinks he could just watch them for a while, but it can’t be more than half a minute.

“Hey,” he manages, barely stifling another moan that catches at the fringes of the word, “you’re not half bad at this.”

They scoff, high-pitched, and drag their fingers against the lining on the way out of his valve (he _does_ moan again), only to smear Rewind’s own lubricant up his torso with their hot and blackened palm, leaving a smear of powder. Rewind hadn’t noticed his double’s panel was already opened until they pulled themselves onto their knees, but the dark stain is already leaking down _their_ thighs; they slip a hand away from him to rub over their valve with a low noise. Rewind sits up and catches one of their rectangular calves by the edge.

“My thigh,” he suggests, although without a question to his tone. He curls the blocky part of his leg up, and he hums in pleasure when the other Rewind lets him pull them forward, when he feels the soft heat of their valve against his upper thigh. Rewind doesn’t need to tell them what to do: their hips fall into a fast and immediate rhythm grinding against him, and he can hear every little sigh and shudder and glitch of their vocalizer so close to his own, every drop of his transfluid starting to smear over their faceplate. Even still ragged from his own overload, Rewind feels arousal searing in him again, watching his double rocking down against him. Watching them wound up from watching him wound up. Just winding and winding and winding and watching each other go.

Their fingers dig and grip at the seams of his shoulders, and his own hands slide down their back, feathery and delicate, tracing the fine wires.

“I can’t wait to show you.” Rewind’s voice is low, and his mask is pressed against their chest, but he looks up for a reaction. “What you look like like this, all covered in it.”

They drop their head back with a moan, and he feels their fingers twist in hard, just into the softer wiring underneath those panels of his shoulders. Their valve grinds forward, backward, forward over his thigh, cyclic and quickening like the way their moaning is beginning to sound, all low oscillations from their vocalizer, increasing in tempo with the speed of their hips. It’s entrancing. Like a dream. Like a good dream.

“You’re gonna look perfect,” Rewind teases, lifting a thumb to skate over their jawline. He feels his own valve ache as theirs suddenly cycles down hard against his thigh, the mechanisms contracting and spasming with the force of his climax. They’re making an _outrageous_ sound in his ear, and he thinks it must just be because they can’t one-up him with words and they can’t just not tag him back. Rewind is content enough to feel them overload hard down against his thigh and listen to them moan-sigh-whimper into his shoulder. His own vocalizer’s small noises of betrayal Rewind tries to stifle; now’s not the time for a concession, _thanks_.

Rewind vents heat over both of them as his double slowly eases to stillness against his thigh. They shift backwards on his leg, and the two of them look at each other, smudged and stained and wet in places.

“You--”

“I--”

The keypad outside the habsuite beeps faintly, before the door opens almost silently, then shuts again behind Chromedome. He doesn’t bother to announce himself before he comes in, but he cuts the first half-syllable of whatever he was about to say off, along with his second step into the room.

“Uh,” Chromedome says, instead-- and very articulately, Rewind thinks. He swears he can feel the heat flushing through his conjunx all the way across the room. Their conjunx.

He shoots a coy glance sidelong, only to see the other Rewind giving him the same look from where he’s still perched on his thigh, both of them dripping with powder and transfluid and burning with heat. _Great minds_ , he thinks.


End file.
